


Reprisal

by Heather C (riteinthefeels)



Series: The Woes of Deceit [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Oral Sex, Revenge Sex, hatefuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 12:16:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1018500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riteinthefeels/pseuds/Heather%20C
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Part 3 and last of this series.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Reprisal

**Author's Note:**

> Part 3 and last of this series.

“Has Thor yet introduced you to Silvertongue, my lady?” Volstagg inquires, winking as he bends to brush his unruly whiskers across her delicate hand.

This earns him a thump on the shoulder blade from the warrior maiden Sif, eyes wide and sparking as she gawks next to him. He straightens stiffly from his bow, inching further from the statuesque female.

“No,” Jane glances between the two Asgardians and Thor, eyes narrowing slightly as they fidget, “he hasn’t.”

Hogun clears his throat, rather more loudly than was really necessary, and interjects, “Perhaps you could meet the Allfather and Frigga first? Loki is tied up at the moment.”

Ducking behind the warrior’s topknot, Fandral claps a hand to his well-groomed face and giggles around it, staring at the floor to avoid Thor’s increasingly exasperated glare.

“Would anyone care to inform me what grand joke I am currently the butt of?” Jane quietly demands, looking at each of the warriors in turn as they all desperately dodge her eye.

Finally, she turns to Thor, scowling up from the level of his chest like the most menacing pygmy to have ever walked on the Bifrost. He sucks on his lip and swings an arm around her shoulders.

“They refer only to my brother’s old nickname—the one I told you about when first we met.” His lopsided grin stops short on his cheeks.

Jane shrugs off his monstrous arm and opens her mouth to protest, but Thor looks to his friends and, with a grand sweep of his hands, leads them from the courtyard.

“Mother and Father are expecting us, I am certain,” he bellows, then lowers his voice to the tiny brunette at his side, “We shall resume this conversation at a later time.”

“Peachy,” she growls as they walk. “That’s strike two, buddy.”

~*~

“The dungeons are down there,” Sif gestures with a wave of her hand, as if flicking some unsavory substance from her fingertips. “I would suggest staying away from them, if I thought you were apt to heed such warnings.”

She guides Jane to her room, steps slow and shuffling to accommodate the smaller Midgardian. The boys have all passed out in the dining hall, some over their plates, so heavy with drink are they. She has long grown accustomed to their behavior and ceased to worry, knowing they will each wake in the wee hours, stinking of piss and mead, and stumble back to their rooms.

It is not that Sif does not also enjoy overindulgence, but it is the habit of herself and her friends that one will always abstain and keep watch in the event one of Asgard’s many enemies comes knocking. With Sif being the sensible one, it lately falls to her more often than not to assume this responsibility.

And, as the others are too intoxicated to navigate the labyrinthine corridors to anywhere but their own quarters, it also falls to her to see Jane to bed. She really cannot see why Thor holds interest in the mortal when he has his pick of hearty Aesir women, but if he wants to waste his time with a diminutive ball of insatiable curiosity, that is his business after all, is it not?

She casually points out rooms of interest as they pass—Odin’s throne room, Frigga’s gardens, the scullery, the servants’ quarters, the weapons vault, and the darkened hall that leads to the stables.

Arriving at the guest accommodations, she pushes wide the heavy ash door, its honeyed color reflecting dim light from the wall torches. The walls hold reliefs of the prophecies of Ragnarok, deep shadows flickering across dark-stained wood as the characters dance between them, eternally parrying and thrusting and gasping their last.

Jane reaches to one of the figures, a thin man in long coat, stabbing and being stabbed by the golden-eyed observer she met upon arriving in Asgard. Her fingers smooth down the oiled wood, penumbra reshaping the thin man’s mad grin to painful frown and back again.

She turns to Sif, tapping the carving. “That’s him, isn’t it?”

“That’s…” her voice cracks for the man she had once called friend, and what he had become, and what would yet become of him, if the Norns told true. “That’s Loki.”

Hand dropping to her side, Jane turns, reaching out to Sif and clutching her calloused hand in her own. She knows how childlike she looks next to all of them, but she doubts Sif would have shown what the Aesir considered weakness in front of her friends.

“You care for him.”

The statement comes out plain; no accusation or question could have cut deeper through Sif’s proud exterior. She nods.

“I did, once. We all did. We all wonder what we could have done to prevent what he became, but none more so than Thor. He loves his brother, though Loki has given him reason enough to hate instead.”

“Maybe,” Jane begins, “there is nothing you all could have done.” She sucks in her breath, closes her eyes and whispers, “That came out wrong. What I mean is, maybe Loki’s actions are the results of his own choices, and none of you are to blame. Do you give anyone else credit for you becoming a powerful warrior?”

Sif scoffs at this, puffing up like a peacock on display. “Of course not.”

“And do you blame anyone else if you make a mistake?”

“Why should I? It’s my own fault, after all.”

“Then why expect Loki to do any differently? He’s not a child. He’s a grown man—and then some, considering you are all well over 30 times my own age, and in Earth terms, I’m a woman. Anyway, why not let him take responsibility for himself?”

Sif stares, stone-faced and silent, at the puny Midgardian. How can she explain that Asgard had not become so technologically advanced that they forgot how to care for each other? From what she had seen of Earth, that particular disease ran rampant. Shaking her head, she bows and backs out of the room, closing the door until she hears it click and striding swiftly back to the dining hall to check on her friends.

~*~

Jane sighs to herself, sitting on the edge of the gargantuan bed and toeing off her boots. _Nice job. Still the pinnacle of social aptitude, I see._ She shrugs off her coat and leaves it at the foot of the bed, sliding under the covers almost fully clothed as she shivers in the crisp Asgard night. Her eyes slide across the fantastical scenes laid out in relief, drawn forever back to that gaunt man with the sable-horned helmet.

Sif is right. She can’t just stay in her room while there is an entire palace to explore. Dark places that can’t be properly examined during the day especially hold her interest; isn’t that why she became an astrophysicist in the first place? She’ll ask Frigga for the grand tour tomorrow, but she is sure that Frigga will skip over such unpleasant areas as the dungeon.

She scoots out of bed, socks offering little protection from the cold stone of the floor. Cracking the door and holding her breath when it creaks, she pads out into the hall and glances down either side. No movement or light betrays the weighty blackness that envelopes her like a security blanket, and she begins to step gingerly along the wall, keeping one hand on the blocks with which to navigate.

Earlier, when Sif led her to her room, a crude map formed in her head of the palace’s tangle of halls. The dungeon had stuck out to her then, and she knows exactly how many turns and doorways stand between her current position and the entrance to the archaic prison. She counts them as the walks, lips moving silently to tick off the numbers until she rounds the last corner and sees a dim light outline of an upright form at the bottom of a precarious set of stairs.

As she approaches, the guard bows slightly. “Lady Jane.”

“Does everyone know who I am?” she muses.

He bows again. “Apologies, lady. Prince Thor said you were to be treated as royalty. I fear, however, you have lost your way.”

“Oh, no! Not at all!” she interrupts. “I know exactly where I’m going. Is there anyone else down here besides the prisoner?”

“No, my lady.”

“Good. Keep it that way, would you? I have a score to settle with Thor’s brother,” and she passes down the murky hall.

She walks leisurely past the holding cells, peering into the dingy corners of each for… what? A thin man in a long coat and sable horns? Shaking her head at the ridiculous notion, she nears a large cell shining like a beacon amid the blackness of the dungeon. Huddling against the back wall, the light from the cell reflects from his pallid skin and makes him seem as if he flickers between this world and another that beckons his soul like a persistent lover.

He lifts his head, black hair a knotted mess above sleep-deprived eyes, and smiles that mad grin from the relief as if he sees not Jane, but something past or perhaps inside her that amuses him. His lips move as he stares, but the cell swallows his words before they reach her.

She inches forward cautiously, all too aware after the footage from New York just how powerful he is. She only means to press her ear to the glass front, but as she reaches for it, her fingertips meet no resistance and push through to the other side, warmth meeting her hands where they breach the wall. Turning her hand and seeing it unharmed, she steps through the glass and welcomes the heat as thoughts of the freezing dungeon disappear with layers of clothing.

“I said, you have a score to settle?”

Her eyes train slowly up his body as she undoes the last buttons of her blouse and stands before him in purple floral panties and a white camisole, bare toes curling against the illuminated floor. Chains on his wrists show that he crouches against the wall for inability to do much else. The meager cell holds a toilet and nothing more. A mirror encompasses the entirety of the far wall, and shackles emerge from it like two fish breaking the serene surface of a pond.

Though bound and bruised, locked out of sight in an absurd dungeon, and utterly mad, Loki commands a presence as powerful as Thor’s, but somehow different, as if they are cut from two different cloths but sewn to the same specifications. Jane’s throat suddenly feels too small, and her eyes drift to the shadowless corners of the room.

“New York…” she utters, though she does not believe her own words and cannot expect him to.

“Oh, is that all?” he chuckles. “I thought for certain there must be some much more personal matter to wrest you from your bed and bring you to this heathen’s sanctuary so late at night.”

She glances behind her, the dark corridor still empty, and steps closer to him, trying to measure the length of his chains like a snake charmer gauging a cobra’s strike zone.

“In fact, I know there is.” His head angles down, and one corner of his thin lips creeps up to meet the flare in his eye.

Folding her legs under her, she sits on the smooth floor and leans forward. “What do you know?”

The other corner drifts up and his face shines in a grin that sprawls upon the line between madness and mirth.

“I know you are not the only Midgardian woman my brother has bedded,” he murmurs, leaning forward to put their faces no more than a foot apart as he sucks in her scent like a street urchin outside a bakery.

Her brows furrow and her mouth turns down as she leans back slightly. “Why should I believe you? Aren’t you the father of lies? Silvertongue?”

“Silvertongue? Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in centuries.” He snickers and leans back, pressing his spine to the reflective glass. “Think about it. I know Thor asked you to do things in bed that you did not desire. I know you fought about it with him.”

Her jaw slacks open slightly as her mouth dries out. She studies her fingernails while his words soak into her skin.

“Do you remember Darcy coming in late to work, limping as if she had fallen from a horse? Well, she had been riding the night before. The horse was named Thor, though.”

Jane’s eyes bug from her head as she stares hard into his eyes, jaw clenched tight. “I… no, that can’t be… shit.”

“You know I’m right, Jane.” Loki reaches to her, pale palm cupping her face in silken caress, wholly unlike the Asgardian warriors and their battle-hardened hands.

“How do you know?” Tears stream down her face and she trembles.

He snorts, “I saw everything Thor did while on Midgard. I had to keep him out of trouble, you know? I saw how gentle he was with you, as well. He always held back. He was so afraid to hurt you.”

Nails dig crescent imprints into her palms. Loki’s fingers curl around her chin and tighten, squeezing her jaw open as her blood rages.

“I would not be so gentle,” he spits through clenched teeth.

She wrenches away from him and scoots back until she is sure he cannot reach her. Jane’s groin burns as from the heat of a bonfire. Her tongue feels thick and swollen. Shame slinks upon her cheeks at the thought of this criminal debasing her, manhandling her, and taking her like a streetwalker. _This is degrading!_ her head screams, but her crotch disagrees.

Heart pounding within her ribcage, she leans forward on her knees to whisper, “Tell me why you are called Silvertongue.”

Loki pushes against the chains, arms stretched behind him, until his mouth is an inch from Jane’s. His tongue darts across his lips, and he blows a breath as cold as Jotunheim’s winters against Jane’s face.

“Rise,” he coaxes, “and I will show you.”

Faltering, she stands and glides cautiously toward him. He reclines as she presses forward, mouth always just a few inches from the purple fabric as if luring in a feral beast. His head thumps softly on the mirror, and the chains rattle as jagged finger nails drag up the backs of Jane’s calves.

“Apologies,” he murmurs. “The guards are not enthusiastic about supplying grooming tools down here.”

His hands slide up under her ass, kneading at the bunched muscle as he pulls her forward. Greedy lips cover her thighs, biting circular indents and licking long lines along the insides. Shivers race across her skin at the wintry touch, pooling in her belly with the warmth of a summer breeze.

He presses his mouth to the front of her panties, and she simultaneously pushes forward and squirms away, wiggling in an absurd dance like snowflakes in a blizzard. Pulling her panties to the side with one finger, Loki licks slowly from deep within the folds of her recesses to drag across her clit. She bucks against him, breath hitching in her throat while his head knocks back into the mirror.

Crushing her against his face, he takes her fully into his mouth and sucks furiously. Her knees shake and threaten to give out, and he hikes her thighs up onto his shoulders, his seeming frailty masking a supernatural strength. He stands, turns to face the mirror, and leans her against it, straps of her camisole falling down and panties soaked through.

His own clothing, tattered and soiled, hangs loosely from his gaunt frame, tenting around his growing shaft. His nails leave craggy half-moons across her ass and thighs. She thrusts against him, and the taste of copper creeps along his tongue where she has split his lip. Her fingers wind through black tangles, pushing hard on the back of his head and pulling at the roots as she comes, keening unintelligibly in a pitch she didn’t know she could reach.

Jane slumps, breathless and dizzy, against his arms. Her hands press to her eyes, trying to make sense of a world without gravity. She feels herself being lowered; then her weight rests unevenly on one arm briefly and when it again supports her buttocks, he is pushing into her, rough and feral, and fierce, biting cold rips a gasp from her throat.

She moans, the heady sound filling the cavernous dungeon, fighting back the dark and muting all other noise. Her nails rake down his back, catching on holes in his shirt and tearing until she is tearing not silk, but cool skin, and her fingers grow sticky. Her head knocks against the glass sheet in a telling rhythm. She feels only Loki plunging into her, all tenderness swept aside as he fills her.

He pants and grunts like a beast, and when once he looks up into the mirror, a mad cackle bursts from him. Jane’s eyes open to slits at the noise, and Thor stands just outside the prison cell, leaning against the wall with slack jaw and sorrow-filled eyes. Her eyes close, shutting out the apparition as orgasm shakes her again, and she screams until echoes crowd out all thought and sound and there is only the feeling of her pussy clamping tight on Loki’s cock.

 _“Loki!”_ Thor howls, and forces the two apart just as Loki comes, so that white ropes spurt and splash against her thighs and belly instead of inside her womb. The blonde crushes his brother against the wall and helps Jane to stand.

“Are you hurt?” he inquires, and she brushes him away and stumbles to her clothes, gathering them in her arms and sitting opposite the huge mirror.

“I’m fine. More than fine—I’m fantastic. Leave him be, he didn’t do anything I didn’t want him to.”

Thor gawks, mouth working soundlessly as he thuds to the ground. “Why?!”

“Oh, really Thor? You think you can just screw my best friend and everything will be fine? Go away, you’re killing my high.”

He scrambles to his feet, sways, and crashes against the mirror.

“Go to bed, Thor. You’re drunk. If you _really_ need to talk about this, we’ll do it tomorrow. Right now, I’m getting some sleep.”

Staggering out of the cell, Thor looks at her painfully one last time, then clunks up the stairs and down the hall.

“Thank you,” Loki pants, slouched once more against the mirror. “You did not have to do that. I think he really may have killed me if you had not.”

“Yes, well,” she retorts, “some people have the decency to take responsibility for their own actions.”

With this, she stands and scurries back to her room, slipping under the covers once again with memories and afterglow to warm the frigid room.


End file.
